I had planned to return to The Scribbler this week, but when I received this submission from Stephen Ross, I knew I’d have to wait until my turn rolled around again. I really have nothing to add to what others have written already about that wonderful final week in April, especially to what Stephen has to say here. So The Scribbler will be back in a fortnight’s time. Until then, I should simply observe that Stephen notes, almost with a sense of surprise, that he was treated like an old friend by us. True, but this should not be at all surprising. Although the strength of friendship may be tested by time, it is formed from the beginning, and he was one of the earliest friends we made when the blog first went online, along with Jeff, Hamilton, and alisa. The strength of our affection and admiration for him have not dimmed since. We treated him like an old friend because he is one, just one we hadn’t yet met face to face.

—JLW

NEW YORK STORY

by Stephen Ross

Stephen Ross, Mary Higgins Clark, and Doug Allyn at the Edgar Banquet

Back in January of this year, I got an email that informed me I had gotten an Edgar nomination for best short story. I stared at the email, and then made a sound that fell somewhere in the vocal range around Flipper.

Three months later, and I was staring at the shoe of a flight attendant. We had just lifted off for a long haul across the Pacific (I live in New Zealand), and the flight attendant was seated opposite me. Rule #1 for air travel: for maximum legroom, always request the front-of-section seating option. The attendant was unconsciously tapping a steady beat with his heel, while staring out the aircraft window.

I am an uncomfortable flyer, and nervous ticks in flight crews trouble me. So, I did what any brave, grown adult would do. I went into complete denial. I mentally went back to my desk to work on my current short story. I went straight back into the problem solving. Coincidentally, the story is set in New York City, which, on account of the Edgars, was my journey’s eventual destination—when Edgar calls, you come.

I had never been to New York before. My time in the US had so far only taken place out on the west coast. Sure, I knew New York. I had seen it in the movies a million times. From King Kong and the Empire State Building to the slimy Times Square of the 70s in Taxi Driver. From the aerial shot that opens Ridley Scott’s Someone to Watch Over Me (and the mystical Chrysler Building), to Jack Lemmon and Judy Holliday falling in love in black and white in Central Park.

And then walking along Broadway on Tuesday, counting down the Avenues to the Brooklyn Bridge, I realised I knew nothing. Not a damn thing. A city is more than a glimpse in a movie, it’s more than a Google Street View, it’s more than background fill in someone’s novel. It is. And unless you be there, you don’t know the is of it. And the legend engraved into every writer’s bedpost is and ought to be: write what you know.

One thing I do know is that crime writers are the nicest people on the planet. On Wednesday, for the first time, I met three of the Criminal Brief gang: James, Melodie, and Steve. And they welcomed me with such warmth I felt like an old friend. We went to dinner at the Round Table Room at the Algonquin, along with writers Linda Lou Long and Charles Todd. It was a great setting. Good food, good wine, good company.

You can smell the history of writing in the Round Table Room. It’s like cigarette smoke that lurks, and no amount of cleaning and scrubbing will ever get it out. A better analogy would probably have been ghosts, but you get the idea, and thinking about it, I bet it took them decades to scrape out the actual smoke tar from the ceiling from just the 1920s alone. When did writers stop smoking? It doesn’t seem right. It’s the same with typewriters.

That night I slept with the hotel window open. I had a view of the roof of Grand Central. I let the drone and bubbling of the city drift into my room. If I was going to set a story in this town I had to get it right. I had to Hoover up all of Manhattan into my head. Its sights, its sounds, even its smells.

And the winner is: The Scent of Lilacs, Doug Allyn, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

So, Doug won the Edgar for best short story. This was Doug’s second Edgar, and years ago, he was one of the first to reel in the Robert L. Fish award.

Let me describe Doug Allyn: Doug is a gentleman. He walked up to the podium with a confidence and maturity that I’ll never possess, and he gave a speech that was eloquent and witty. Had I won, by contrast, I’d have made an utter fool of myself.

Don’t get me wrong, I would have gladly sauntered up to the podium like a jackass and stuttered and started, and tripped up over names, and dribbled saliva, but it wasn’t to be.

And then I was back in denial, on a long haul home, and back firmly in my New York story: thinking about it, reworking it, rewording it. Baby, it has to change.

And if I don’t ever get another shot at an Edgar, I’ll be happy with the memory of standing in the dimly lit, Pre-Edgars cocktail party—the reception for the nominees—and thinking: how in the world did I get so damn lucky to be standing there?

TAKEDOWN

by Leigh Lundin

A week ago, the moneyman and motivator behind the greatest crime of the new millennium faced the consequences. This week, like the rest of the world, we’re trying to sort out what happened.

Booted out of his own country as a religious madman, bin Laden found like-minded souls among the Taliban where he learned to wage war against the Russians. In short order, he turned his attention to the world’s other great superpower, the United States, eventually using four airliners as living bombs to kill more than 3000 citizens from around the globe.

Lives weren’t the only casualty, which included civil liberties, traveling freely, national economies, international trust, and his own family. In the days following 9/11, we had the world’s good will in our palm, but in our pain and rage, we made mistakes. Churchill said the United States always does the right thing– after it’s tried everything else. But we’re better than that, we persist, we get where we’re going.

To a person, we wished to nail the evil who wreaked this havoc. One man, Gary Brooks Faulkner, wanted bin Laden so much, he wandered Pakistan with a sword and knife until authorities arrested him, probably for his own good.

Although an urban legend took root that bin Laden lived in caves along the Afghan-Pakistani border, an evil BoBo of bin Laden’s wealth and privilege wouldn’t slum forever. Some knew better, journalist Christiane Amanpour, for one, whose sources years earlier reported bin Laden living comfortably in a Pakistan suburb. I don’t doubt our military intelligence had a good idea as well, but knowing the bad guy lived in Pakistan and knowing where he lived in Pakistan were two different propositions.

Oddly, Geraldo Rivera seemed to have similar notions and in the scramble of speculation before the White House press announcement, his instincts zeroed in, first guessing that the US had nailed a target and moments later wondering if it might be bin Laden.

Now that that mystery has been resolved, many more questions remain fueling geopolitical angst, conspiracy theories, and crime thrillers, the stuff of Tom Clancy novels. We’ll touch on a few of these mysteries.

Where’s the Long Form Death Certificate?

Is bin Laden really dead?

While the question intrigues on several levels, a many-person cover-up would be difficult to mount. On the other hand, it has to disappoint intelligence officials if he did die. It’s interesting to wonder if bin Laden might become terrorism’s Rudolf Hess in an Iron Mountain Spandau.

In a related issue, several commentators questioned why bin Laden was shot if he was unarmed. Perhaps the heat of the moment, the darkness, or interference with the wife in front of him could have caused him to be inadvertently shot. In London, some wondered if Navy Seals were under military aegis of something like the shoot-to-kill orders of Operation Kratos, but few are losing sleep about it. Besides, al-Qaeda people like bombs.

What was Pakistan’s Rôle?

Despite the State Department’s warm words for Pakistan’s shaky democracy and despite persistent rumors at least one Pakistani intelligence officer was present, Pakistan’s part seems to have been, kindly worded, their Nigel Bruce to our Basil Rathbone.

Whether Pakistan officials at any level knew where bin Laden holed up could be argued both ways but in fairness, evidence accumulated thus far suggests not. While bin Laden could no doubt have garnered support among radicals, he had too much to lose if his presence became known.

Who Else Knew?

Beyond Christiane Amanpour’s sources (and Geraldo’s guesses), a California college class working both mathematical models and social theories, deduced bin Laden was living in an urban setting, probably in a medium-sized Pakistani town. (Rumor has it Professors Charlie Eppes and Amita Ramanujan were not consulted.)

Who was that Masked Dog?

At least one dog may have accompanied the mission. Like the Seals, his name has not been revealed and it’s unclear if he wore dog tags.

What secrets were found?

We can only surmise, but apparently quite a haul was removed from the compound. The take apparently included dozens of hard drives and flash drives.

Bird Watching

Among other technology, techno-thrillers necessarily focus on newly revealed toys. I wondered at the photos of the crashed airframe, but whirlybird geeks are way ahead of most of us, speculating about the craft the Seals flew in upon. News articles simply refer to them as Blackhawks, but that’s not what crashed.

In efforts to stem the plummeting economy, Obama received criticism for killing off several (mostly duplicate or overlapping) military projects. Now experts are wondering if funding was secretly diverted to clandestine projects, because the crashed TAPO Airwolf helicopter appears like nothing else in our arsenal or on the books, a sort of stealth chopper in multiple senses.

News services commissioned Ugo Crisponi to put together the clues, which he envisions something like the rendering here.

Aftermath

A malignant cell has been excised but the cancer will fight back, trying to metastasize. Most of the world understandably feels relief bin Laden was disposed of.

My friend Steve and I chatted about the swirl of news. While I can’t celebrate death, I can’t think of anyone who deserved it more. Rashard Mendenhall tweeted similar sentiments about celebrating death (since removed under pressure from the Pittsburgh Steelers):

"What kind of person celebrates death?"

"I believe in God. I believe we’re ALL his children. And I believe HE is the ONE and ONLY judge."

"Those who judge others, will also be judged themselves."

"For those of you who said you want to see Bin Laden burn in hell and piss on his ashes, I ask how would God feel about your heart?"

Mendenhall is right about not celebrating death, no matter how deserved– we’re better than that. But, I also encourage people to not judge those feeling release and grim satisfaction, tonic after death and destruction and the pain of loss.

Ridding the world of bin Laden was a milestone, not an end point. Andrew Jackson and Wendell Phillips paraphrased John Philpot Curran in describing the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. Unlike the end of World War II where the light of a new world shone over the White Cliffs of Dover, much work remains to do.

But we’ll get there.

FOUR PLAY

by James Lincoln Warren, Janice Law, Melodie Johnson Howe, Rob Lopresti, Deborah Elliott-Upton, Steve Steinbock, John M. Floyd, and Leigh Lundin

Stop the presses, put on your dancing shoes, and pop the cork on that bottle of champagne. Today marks the fourth anniversary of Criminal Brief: The Mystery Short Story Web Log Project. We have much to celebrate.

Two things are especially worthy of revelry. First, we welcomed the incomparable Melodie Johnson Howe back into our ranks after a long hiatus. Secondly, we embraced the astonishingly erudite and accomplished Janice Law into the fold. CB has never been better, and these two truly raise the bar. Three cheers!

But as in every joyous commemorative gathering, things would not be complete without a round of toasts. Last year, as the Gentle Reader may recall, each of us selected two columns from the entire collected corpus of CB columns to celebrate the particular breadth and depth of the blog, one by ourselves and one by another regular contributor. This year, we’re doing something similar: each one of us was asked to pick his or her favorite from his own oeuvre and a second Greatest Hit from one of the others, but the selections were limited to the past twelvemonth’s posts. You may think that we had some competition in picking columns from each other’s contributions, but in fact we all so admire each other that it was easy to ensure everybody was represented. Leigh and Steve cheated a little bit by picking more than one favorite by themselves, but as I was in a characteristically avuncular mood when they submitted them, and especially because I know only too well how difficult it is to choose among one’s brainchildren, I have let them stand. Consider it an embarrassment of riches.

As before, I will kick things off and we’ll go in order of our rotation.

JLW

As with last year, I can’t really claim that I favor any one of my offerings above the others—although I confess there are some that I look upon as being problem children. But as anniversary celebrations are of necessity times of refection, I direct the Gentle Reader’s attention to “Editor! Editor!”, since it gives a little history and a look under the hood at my primary function on Criminal Brief.

Speaking of editing, during our selection process for this particular column, I went first—not because of editorial privilege (which I guard with my life), but because I am selfish and an intellectual bully, and didn’t want anybody else to grab the girl I wanted for myself. I’ve been an admirer of Janice Law’s for years and years, and when she wrote and asked if I would pretty please consider her for a guest column, you could have knocked me over with that puff of air the machine hits your eye with when you’re being examined for glaucoma or cataracts or whatever it is when you visit the optometrist. Guest column, ha! I roped her in as a regular as fast as I could whip out my lasso.

I trust the Gentle Reader has perceived how skillfully I avoided using that tired old cliché, “with a feather” just now. What? You think I went over the top? Funny you should say that, because the column I chose was Janice’s “Amazing! Brilliant! Absolutely Perfect!”, which addressed a phenomenon near to my heart, the proliferation of empty hyperbole, and is certainly the greatest, most important, and significant blog column ever written in the history of the Universe since the Bible.

Janice Law

I have embarrassingly few columns to pick from, but one I enjoyed when it came into print was “Just the Right Amount of Reality.” This was not so much because of my brilliant, insightful prose as because of the wonderful illustration James found. And like Deborah’s column on slang (see below), the picture of what appears to be Queen Elizabeth II holding a large and lethal pistol has suggested some amusing literary developments: Grannies with Glocks, robbers in Queen Elizabeth masks, or the lethal matriarch of some criminal clan. Alan Bennett put the queen into library stacks, book stores, and mobile book vans in The Uncommon Reader. Could we take her a little further afield to housebreaking or Bond territory? Fun to imagine.

Just as some paintings make you want to pick up a brush, so some columns, like Deborah’s “What You Say?” of March 24th, make you want to hit the keyboard. And though I only rarely write historical pieces, her compendium of racy slang makes me think that a little something set in the twenties, when I could set characters looking like the bees knees in their glad rags off on the lam would be a lot of fun. The 30s beckon, too. I can see a few nice lines of dialogue along the lines of, “He was passing sour dough so we drilled him and put him in a Chicago overcoat.” Or moving up to the 50s, “An ankle biter interrupted a session of backseat bingo, which got me so frosted I had to buy another tube steak.” This stuff is irresistible—real whoopee for writers!

Melodie Johnson Howe

Choosing one of my own columns became an almost impossible task since I wanted to rewrite all of them. I managed to settle on “Macmelodie”. It isn’t one of my best, but I like it because I used humor to capture a woman out of her element, a marriage, and a writer beginning again.

I chose James because he is a particularly good purveyor of the art of our craft. He knows his stuff. He is also a man who takes his responsibilities seriously. His knowledge and his integrity are on full display in “The Code of the Warrens.” Written succinctly and simply, his column should be read by every new writer and as a reminder for every pro. Another reason I picked this column is the photo. James looks wonderfully silly, even endearing, with his top hat resting on his ears.

Robert Lopresti

“Nice Catch” by Rob Lopresti

I guess it’s the librarian in me, but I love pointing out interesting reference books. This was about The Oxford Dictionary of Catchphrases. What I love about catchphrases is their poetry-like compressing of ideas/moods/meanings into a few words. In the comments on the blog Terrie steered us to a wonderful page of misquotations, which would be worth a blog entry or two of their own.

“Drove my Chevy to the Levee but the Levee was Dry” by John Floyd

John is our blog’s listmaker-in chief. How can I resist this one, about story songs? He says he prefers instrumentals . . . “But these songs made me pay attention to the words. A good tune and a good storyline; what more could a listener ask?” Hear Hear! And a lot more great songs mentioned in the comments as well. How did everyone miss “Pancho and Lefty” (Townes Van Zandt), “And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda” (Eric Bogle), and “Ballad of Dan Moody (Roving Cowboy)” (Michael Smith)?

Deborah Elliott-Upton

Anniversaries are always a time of reflection. My stint with Criminal Brief brings only good memories amid reminders of certain columns requiring extra research time. “Who’s a Nimrod?,” my March 10th inclusion, was a joy to research and write. I was happy to incorporate history, writing and fun into one article. I hope you liked it, too. (I think the video caught a lot of attention from those who don’t care so much about history, but that’s okay. Marketing is marketing.)

One of my favorite columns this year was from Leigh Lundin (pronounced Lun-deen instead of like the city). Leigh is always on top of the news in the writing world, crimes and mysteries involving the two. Leigh is a watchdog that keeps us on our toes. His January 23 article, “Literary News” was one of those that I particularly enjoyed. I love the story of the mysterious visitor leaving gifts at Poe’s grave, tips shared from several writers and controversy concerning censorship of Mark Twain’s classic Huckleberry Finn. Leigh’s always a great read!

Steve Steinbock

Although my favorite of the past year’s Bandersnatches was “Leaves from the Queen’s Notebooks” (surveying some old issues of EQMM), I have to list “ Why Do We Read Mysteries?” It’s about as good a manifesto for detective fiction as I’ve come across, and anytime I’m able to relevantly invoke “The Wizard of Oz” is a good thing.

The task of choosing just one of Robert Lopresti’s columns as my favorite from the past year was almost my undoing. So many of his columns held both quality and interest. There was his September 1, 2010 column about the relativism of time. There were his November 3, 2010 recollections of our gathering at Bouchercon. And there was the deeply personal and rightfully proud column about his daughter Susan’s Ph.D (March 9, 2011). But ultimately I settled on “Chat Room,” from July 28, 2010. Written entirely in dialogue, it was funny, on topic (multiple topics), and like a good song, seemed to encompass all things.

John M. Floyd

My own favorite Criminal Brief column this past year? That’s a tough choice. Some are more fun to research and write than others, though, and I suppose the column I most enjoyed creating was “If You Don’t Know Your Burro From a Burrow”. Quirky facts and rules about language are not only interesting to me, they’re helpful too, now and then—and I need all the help I can get.

As for my favorite column by a fellow CBer, that’s even harder, since I enjoy reading my colleagues’ pieces much more than I enjoy reading my own. The one I’ve picked is Melodie Johnson Howe’s “When Hollywood Gets It Right”. I love movies and I love Melodie’s writing style, so her “insider” observations about the film industry are always fun for me, and in this one she provided some interesting opinions about movies and novels. (I also happened to agree with them.)

Leigh Lundin

Research takes a lot of work, which I can’t deny I enjoy, epitomized by, say, “WikiLicks,” my WikiLeaks article. The crime story that touched me most received only one comment, but I trust that “Virginia, Virginia,” about Virginia Christian’s century-old case, affected readers as much as it did me.

Steve Steinbock’s articles tend to be nearly as peripatetic as my own. Of all our colleagues literary suggestions, I tend to follow up more of Steve’s reading list, perhaps because of my enjoyment of traditional and classical mysteries. However, in June, Steve wrote about speed-reading or the lack thereof in “Read My Lips,” which spoke to me.

I used to have a superpower. Throughout middle and high school, I could burn through an adult novel in less than two hours. I never knew what my kryptonite was, but halfway through college I lost the ability. As Steve wrote, I learned to slow down and savor. That’s a good trade off. Best of all, reader Yasheve left a comment that’s hard to top:

“Blogs are stupid. But I happen to love this one, and the only blog I read regularly is a joy to read for the very reasons listed in this post. It’s a turn-on to read words strung together so beautifully they roll right off the tongue (if you read aloud) or create a symphony in the brain (if you read silently).”

And in conclusion . . .

There you have it. Bottoms up!

JABBER-WALKING

by Steven Steinbock

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

Friends and faithful readers, it’s been a long – but not inglorious – two weeks. Between April 19 and May 1, I was home for just over a day. Monday mid-morning, after a week in Seattle looking at the College of Engineering at University of Washington, my son and I returned to Maine. I barely had time to let the jetlag sink in when I repacked my bags and went galumphing back to the airport at 4 a.m. Wednesday morning.

Then it was four nights and five days in New York and Bethesda, MD for various mystery-related meetings, events, and gatherings. As I write this, I’ve been home for almost three days, and have been resting in the shade of my Tumtum tree long enough that most of the drugs have worn off and I can see (and type) fairly straight again.

Those four days and five nights were filled with dazzling fun, most of it in the company of Criminal Brief host and gatekeeper James Lincoln Warren. At risk of repeating myself (last week I mentioned my train ride with Commander Warren from Penn Station to Union Station) and putting you all to sleep, I thought I’d share a few of the highlights – in two parts – from my trip. Part one: NYC.

Wednesday, April 27. Noon

El Quixote restaurant in Chelsea is an appropriate setting for me to gather my knights (the executive board of International Association of Crime Writers, North American chapter) at a round table. The table was round, but there were no windmills to chase, but we did slay a few dragons and complete all the business on our agenda.

Wednesday afternoon, April 27.

Manhattan is a great place for walking. I walked from the restaurant (on 23rd and Seventh) to the Hyatt (on 42nd and Park), and then up to Lighthouse International (on E 59th near Central Park) where the MWA Edgar Symposium was taking place. At 5:30 a reception convened at which Mary Higgins Clark announced the award given in her name. I spent some time with my Sherlockian pal Bill Vande Water, and then, as is unavoidable at such events, I met up with Charles Todd .

Long before the party wrapped up, I wrapped myself up. Mr. Vande Water returned to Long Island while I and Mr. Todd, and his sidekick Linda Lou Long (heretofore referenced as “L-cubed”), made our way to The Algonquin Hotel where we met up with James Lincoln Warren, Melodie Johnson Howe, and Stephen Ross. If you read last week’s column, you know about that already.

Thursday, April 28.

I spent the morning writing my column for the following day. Then met up with James Lincoln Warren and Stephen Ross at a nearby delicatessen where we ordered sandwiches that were not quite as large as a subway car. It may seem backwards that Commander Warren, a Texas W.A.S.P., was guiding me, a pioneer of the Yiddish persuasion, to a New York deli. But then again, James is more worldly than I, and lives not far from the Pico-Roberts neighborhood of Los Angeles, sometimes called “Torah Town,” while I abide in Maine.

Melodie Johnson Howe and Linda Landrigan at the Edgar Banquet

Later in the afternoon, the lot of us, dressed in our festive garb, gathered at a party hosted by Peter Kantor, publisher for Dell Magazines. It was a modestly attended event, made special by the hospitality of the hosts and the extraordinary guest list. All my favorite authors from the pages of EQMM and AHMM were there: David Dean, Art Taylor, Doug Allyn with his wife Eve, S.J. Rozan, Elizabeth Zelvin, Dave Zeltserman, and many others. I spent some time chatting with Richard Dannay (the son of Fred Dannay AKA half of “Ellery Queen”), and of course with Janet (of EQMM) and Linda (of AHMM). I was happy to see Emily G., the former Assistant Editor at Queen. I was also delighted to meet Jackie S., the new Assistant Editor, as well as Emily H., the Editorial Administrative Assistant who was tending bar at the event. With two “Emilys” it was a little confusing.

I stuck with ginger ale. Always a good plan of action when faced with a long string of events, especially when two “Emilys” are present.

Next it was on to the Edgars, which were really well done. The food was great. The presentations top notch. A smooth passing of the torch from past president Laura Lippman to new president Lisa Scottoline. And no (actually there was one) long, overblown speeches.

After the Edgars I shared a cab with Charles Todd and L-cubed to an afterparty hosted by Otto Penzler. I engaged in a unique game of Ping Pong with Deadly Pleasures reviewer Larry Gandle. I drank ginger ale. A good time was had by all.

The rest of the evening was a blur, ginger ale notwithstanding, and I’m not sure I can say any more without embarrassing JLW or myself. (Stephen Ross was exceptionally well-behaved throughout. I kept waiting for him to break out in a rousing “Waltzing Matilda” or a Maori War Chant, but Stephen is far too restrained).

Friday, April 29.

At 8:15 am I phoned Commander Warren to make sure he was up and ready to catch our train to Washington, DC. It was a good thing I did. There is much to be said for ginger ale.

That marks the end of the first half of my April Adventure. Stay tuned for more.

And be sure to check back with Criminal Brief tomorrow as we celebrate our FOURTH ANNIVERSARY as the world’s leading weblog for short mystery fiction.

BENEATH THE SURFACE

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

I feel like I’m treading water in a sea of Olympic swimmers sailing past me. My friend Jennifer Archer just published her first hardback, Through Her Eyes, a young adult novel that has a touch of mystery and a ghost and a fabulous cover. My friend April is in the midst of adopting a baby from Ethiopia, though she already has two biological children and home schools them in a beautiful home she keeps by herself. My daughter works an evening shift, attends college full time, is an award-winning published writer and has just presented us with a beautiful granddaughter. And me? I’m thinking about writing a novel.

Okay, so the thinking isn’t just thinking. I allow my characters and their friends and where they live, die, and sometimes plot crimes or solve them, to develop almost in utero. I have scribbled a brief outline and a character study where I still need to fill in some blanks. I don’t fully know my heroine yet, so how can I understand her motives, much less the friends she will make or why she would even attempt to solve this mystery? I feel like Mary in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” sitting at the ice cream counter not able to make a decision about what she wants from the soda fountain. “I’m still thinking,” she says. Then when she does make up her mind, the young-but-already-knowing-what-he-wants-from-life George Bailey tells her she’s an idiot not to like coconut, and doesn’t she even know where coconut comes from?

People are always happy to point out:

• I should write romance because it sells more. (These people haven’t seen my attempts at romance!)
• Mysteries have more competition in writing contests, so it makes sense there is more competition in the publishing world, too.
• Short stories are a hard sell and there’s less money in them when you do sell them.

What works for one person rarely does for his neighbor (except maybe when it comes to fences). Yet I still listen to counsel from those who “are in the know” about such things. I also listen to those who have my best interests at heart. That Muse that flits around sometimes is fun, but she doesn’t always know what’s best for me; she just knows what I’ll enjoy playing around with her for a while.

I am listening to my own heart. It may look like I am drifting on that water, but underneath my legs are in constant motion. If they weren’t, I would sink from sight.

I’m still here. I have great plans. But for this moment, I’m still thinking.

DEFINE YOUR TERMS

by Rob Lopresti

Last time I tried to write this piece I wound up with this one instead. Second time’s a charm, I hope.

I’m not trying to replace Noah Webster, but I do love a certain type of definition: a witty or at least pithy one. I collect those related to our field. Feel free to suggest more, your own or others.

Blockbuster. A category crime novel – usually forty thousand words too fat – breaking for the big money. —Donald E. Westlake.

Cozy: A novel in which people get killed, but nobody gets hurt. —Unknown.

Gothic: A story about a girl who gets a house. —Donald E. Westlake

Noir: Life is hard; then you die. —Anonymous.

Noir: I’m Irish. Noir is our baseline. —Twist Phelan

Thriller: If it doesn’t thrill, it’s not a thriller. —David Morrell

Comparisons are odious

Hardboiled = Tough. Noir = Screwed. —Jack Bludis

Hard-boiled is about tough guys who win. Noir is about tough guys who lose. —Terrill Lee Lankford

In a mystery a hero chases an unknown bad guy. In suspense, a bad guy, usually known, chases a hero. —Lorrie B. Potters.

Suspense is personal; thriller is global. —Steve Steinbock

Thriller is a verb. Suspense is a noun. —The Old Man (James Allen?)

Traditional mystery = Whodunit. Locked room mystery = Howdunit. Psychological mystery = Whydunit. Paranormal mystery = Whatdunit. —Lorrie B. Potters

SNAPSHOTS OF THE EDGARS AND NEW YORK

by Melodie Johnson Howe

James Lincoln Warren strode through the ballroom of black-clad guests wearing a white dinner jacket, his red silk handkerchief dripping from his chest pocket like blood.

It was nice to hear the acceptance speeches from the Edgar winners. Most were gracious, witty and thankful. But the show itself was without humor, and a few pontificating writers didn’t help the mood. Do the Edgars need an emcee?

Stephen Ross, who was nominated for Best Short Story, flew in from New Zealand. He’s a lovely man and I was glad I got to meet him. James put together one of his famous dinners at the Algonquin Hotel. Stephen, Steve Steinbock, Charles Todd, and Linda Lou Long drank, laughed, and swapped stories. I love it when men gossip. My lips are sealed.

And here is a photo of the infamous group and the legendary painting of the Algonquin Round Table writers

Sitting with Linda Landrigan and Janet Hutchings at the Edgars was an honor and a delight.

The weather was hot, muggy, rainy, and sunny. Lenore, whom I’ve known since we were thirteen, came up or down from Vermont and stayed with me. When I wasn’t doing business or Edgar-related festivities, we went shopping. We even had a Dior “make-over” at Saks. We bought lipstick and eye liner with the same enthusiasm and laughter we had when we were fifteen. Alas, I also bought some brushes and potions that at the time seemed absolutely necessary, but now that I’m home I don’t even remember what they are for or how to use them. Oh, and Lenore returned her lipstick.

We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and saw an interesting if not exciting show of 19th century German and Danish paintings of the artists’ own rooms. Maybe it’s the writer/voyeur in me, but I love peering into windows and rooms, glimpsing not my life but someone else’s.

Then we took in the ever-dazzling impressionists, and I was reminded how much I like the so-called “minor” artists Villard and Bonnard. And how Monet’s haystacks thrill me more than his water lilies. And Degas’s sharp wry eye still grabs at my throat.

When we were leaving the museum I was also reminded why I love New York. It is a hard-edged, even cruel, city that is way too expensive. But it is bursting with enthusiasm and filled with the dreams of artists and writers.

The last night I was there Lenore and I walked to the theater (after we couldn’t get a cab) by way of Times Square. The square is an assault of neon commercialism and narcissism. It was so blatant and ugly that I longed for the old Times Square of hookers and peep shows.

I have to admit that, feted and sated, we both fell asleep during Tom Stoppard’s play, “Arcadia.” We left during intermission.

I’d like to end this column by saying we got the son-of-a-bitch Osama Bin Laden. Terrorism will not end, but he’s finished. America did not forget.